January 6th. Part 2 coming in a second post. 1,031 words.

Though she was unsure of whether or not the name suited the mare, Foxglove had taken to calling her Valeria after her conversation with Ulilohi by the Great Fire, the heart of the tribe. She still did not know if she wanted to call the mare anything that could be linked to war and conflict, but the tribe's council woman had been right. The horse was strong, physically and in spirit. The gypsy girl could not speak to the equine, but she could simply tell. A bond had formed between Foxglove and the unnamed horse, now called (perhaps temporarily) Valeria, during the many months they had spent getting to know one another and after Liliana had taught her to ride, though the blonde hybrid had taken to riding with both of her legs dangling over one side of the horse.

There was a sharp pang of grief that washed over her, piercing her heart, as she thought of the dark wolfdog her mother had spoken so highly of, that she had grown attached to. There was nothing she could have done, having been trapped in the cabin and tied up at the time of Liliana's death in Crimson Dreams, but she hated to know it had happened. They had not been close, but she had begun to look up to the woman as a type of second mother, though she never would have said as such. After leaving her mother at such a young age, the girl had wanted to find a woman to look up to, to depend on in times of need for guidance. Now she was gone, and that came as a great loss to the gypsy girl of the tribe.

Liliana's death only helped her to feel out of place in the tribe, for she no longer even had her or the Utina family to turn to. If the rest had stayed even after her death, then perhaps Foxglove could have become a part of their family, so she would still have somewhere to belong, but that was not an option, for they had never returned to the tribe. Perhaps her imprisonment would have been easier, or the wounds would have healed early, if she'd had someone to confide in, to help her get over the injustices she had suffered. Instead, she'd had no one, a recurring theme in her life.

She sighed, urged the horse on further towards the city. It was not her favorite place to go, but she thought it might suit her purposes for the day. Foxglove was looking for things. Maggie had mentioned during their last meeting that she wanted a dagger or knife, and though it was far from normal for her to want to carry a weapon, the blonde sister could not help but think about looking for one of her own. Maybe if she'd had a weapon or any defensive skills, she would not have been so easily caught and tied up, and she might have been able to escape. She could not have returned to the tribe and Szellem might have left her, but would that have been bad?

Yes. The loss of Szellem would have been great, she knew as she looked to the bird spirit where he was nestled in the spot between the mare's ears. He had been her guide for about half a year now and she rarely sought his advice, but having him near was a comfort. Losing the tribe would not have been such a bad thing, but the loss of her spirit guide would have been a terrible blow in the wake of being targeted and attacked as she was.

She halted Valeria outside a store that looked promising, easing herself down from the sturdy horse's back. "Itt marad," she murmured softly to the mare in the tongue she felt most comfortable with, though she knew that no matter what words she used, the horse would not understand. It was the meaning behind the words, the mannerisms used when speaking, that conveyed the message and she trusted that Valeria would still be there when she was finished scavenging. She lifted Szellem from where he was perched, tucking him on her shoulder beside the gauzy green scarf she wore over her shoulders, where he settled comfortably.

Pushing open the glass door with the missing bottom panel, Foxglove inhaled the musty, metallic scent that permeated the air here. There had been weapons visible in the windows that had drawn her in, made her think there might be something she was looking for there. She stepped over the debris, jade eyes scanning the many glass cases, some shattered completely and some with only small pieces of glass missing. Her fingers traced over the dusty top of one case where many small daggers lay, some silver and some jeweled. They looked dangerous, but that was what she was looking for. Something deadly, but something small, something easily hidden. Something that no one would ever expect of her.

Lifting one, she studied it carefully, then decided that its sleek design suited Magnolia well. Carefully she tucked it into the faded leather bag she carried with her, the small bundle pressed against her thigh and tied to the waist of her dress. Soon she would find Maggie and give it to her, and she hoped her dear sister would like it. Finding one for herself took a bit longer, but when she did, she put it with Magnolia's gift for safe-keeping. If she had thought about it, she would have realized that having the dagger meant it should be within reach, but she was not thinking of that. The gypsy girl's mind was not structured to expect attack or to defend herself.

Foxglove exited the weapons store, finding the horse exactly where she had expected to. She smiled, running her hand over the mare's nose gently while the spirit bird flew back to his perch between Valeria's ears. The blonde hybrid walked to the left side of the horse and prepared herself to mount again, but hesitated. The sound came a second time and she whipped her head around sharply, looking for the source of the cry.

1,008 words

Foxglove peered around herself curiously, blonde ears turning out at the sound of the mewling cries. For a moment, she hardly believed that the sound had been real. It did not happen again immediately and the gypsy girl thought it possible that her imagination was acting up in the wake of the pressing loneliness she had been feeling lately. The tribe had not been providing her with the environment that she needed to thrive, and perhaps the gypsy girl was losing her grip on reality because of it. The first few cries had followed one another immediately, but the long stretch of silence that followed and rested over the decrepit city seemed almost unreal, an unearthly silence that gave her the chills.

And then, the crying sound came again and the gypsy girl nearly danced away from the horse and spirit bird in search of the sound. Szellem watched her curiously, but he did not intervene. Some guides felt the need to insert themselves forcefully into the lives of their charges, but the finch-shaped spirit did not appreciate such things and knew that his charge would not, either. Neither of them was much for speaking when it was unnecessary, and so they did not have the social bond that many tribe members had with their guides. Still, the bird spirit was well aware that the blonde hybrid did not wish to lose his presence. If that was not something that worried her, he knew that she would have left by now. Certainly he did not wish to leave her, and so even if she left, he would follow. That, however, was something for her to learn at a later time.

The bird spirit watched, small head moving with sharp, angular actions, beady eyes watching his charge as she moved away from the equine in search of the sounds that had caught her attention so raptly. For the moment, the gypsy girl was no longer thinking of the tribe and all of the injustices she had suffered; the sound of a strange animal crying had done a good job of distracting her from those thoughts. Her jade eyes were filled with a livelihood that Szellem had not seen in them since before she had been taken to the cabin outside the main town of the tribe and locked away there. It was reassuring to see, and she could feel herself getting lighter, revitalized by the purposeful search for the sound's source.

Every few moments she paused, tilting her head to orient herself to the cries. They were not canine sounds, certainly, and she did not know what she expected to find when she finally found it. It did not occur to her to think about what she would do with the crying thing once it was found, either. Instead, she kept walking down the street, peering down alleys and behind trees and buildings, even under the edges of the ruined skeletons of automobiles. As she neared a dark blue house with a sad looking front porch, she felt her heart surge as the cries got louder.

Moments flew by as she fell to her knees before the porch, sneezing multiple times in rapid succession because of the dirt and dust that greeted her pink nose when she attempted to look under the rotting boards. As the ruckus settled and the mewling resumed, Foxglove allowed her eyes to adjust to the dark that was beneath the porch. She felt her heart break as she peered underneath, gasping sadly.

Three kittens were crawling over one another and crying, their little paws pressing against the dusty grey fur of the larger cat laying on her side beneath the porch. The scent on the air indicated sickness, and for but a moment, she thought the adult cat was dead. The faint rise and fall of the chest in a heavy sigh indicated otherwise. Some time was spent simply watching the three small bundles, all rail-thin and weakly crying, and the sleeping - or resting, or sick - mother. Then she reached under the porch in hopes of pulling them all out, for she certainly could not leave them there to die. The mother cat had other plans, hissing sharply at the intruding canine and in a split decision, she was off and running, streaking away as fast as she could make it, kittens left behind in an act of self-preservation that went against most maternal instincts in animals.

With their mother gone, the kittens cried even louder now. Foxglove sucked in a breath and reached in quickly, grabbing the first one that her hand wrapped around and pulling it out, ignoring the scratch that it put on her palm. She held it up and studied its orange and cream features in the light, then tucked it between her knees as she leaned down and repeated the process, pulling out a chubby grey kitten with darker stripes circling only its tail. She placed that one with the orange one and leaned down again for the last kitten while the other two squirmed and meowed where they were trapped between her knees. The last, a black and white kitten of fiery nature, joined the other two and she scooped them up in one of her thick scarves before she carried them back to her mount.

As she rode back towards the tribe's lands, the gypsy girl studied the three climbing bodies that she had rescued. Her thoughts drifted to the mother and she wished she had been able to take her, as well, but it had been enough to rescue the three kittens. When she returned to her hut she would need to find them some meat to eat, and she knew dried meat would not be acceptable. She would need to hunt and soften the meat. Then she could find them water and figure out if they were boys or girls, and hopefully they would not need months to be named, as her horse had. It should be a faster process... She hoped, anyway.